


you don't know why (but you're dying to try)

by rnadison



Category: American Vandal (TV)
Genre: M/M, New Year's Eve, No beta we post like men, Pining, madison abuses parantheses, ughhh love that pining juice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 09:19:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17221199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rnadison/pseuds/rnadison
Summary: Sam looks so good.And Peter can’t do it again.He can’t stand across the room and watch Sam kiss someone else. Not tonight. He can’t watch Sam give away the kiss he’s been working so hard for for two years now.





	you don't know why (but you're dying to try)

**Author's Note:**

> title is from "kiss the girl," but specifically the ashley tisdale version. that's the vibe we're going for rn. 
> 
> also! the headcanon that ashley hanson is, in fact, a boy, was entirely masterminded by @phonecallfromgod in her gospel fic, "In Case of Emergency, Break Heart." tony yacenda and dan perrault??? they're shakinggg baybee!! but seriously, go check it out, and all of her other work. real writers only in my house!!!

_**December 31, 2015, almost midnight** _ 

At fifteen, Peter is decidedly uncool.

It doesn’t bother him, really. Honestly, he’s kind of given up on the whole popularity thing. He knows his place. Peter Maldonado, co-host of the Morning Show. One of the four members of Film Club. Cheese stick enthusiast.

So it’s kind of a miracle that him and Sam got invited to Ashley Hanson’s New Year’s party. _Okay,_ it was more of a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend situation, but still. Peter never had those friends-of-friends-of-friends before.

(Pat Micklewaite sure seems to. But he tries not to dwell on that.)

In any case, Peter knows where he belongs.

Sam slumps against the wall next to Peter, bumping his shoulder against his. He blows a paper party horn in his direction. “Hey.”

“Hey.” He smiles at him. Maybe it’s the warmth of the room, or the beer bottle in his hand, but Sam’s cheeks look even more flushed than usual.

Sam tilts his head knowingly in the direction of the living room. “So are you gonna do it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Peter knows exactly what he’s talking about.

“Dude!” Sam nudges him with the butt of the bottle. “Kiss Ashley at midnight?”

“Don’t say it so loud,” Peter mutters, bristling uncomfortably as Paige Wodecki brushes past, followed closely by a gaggle of girls.

“Look,” Sam says. “Alex is already getting in prime position.”

Peter swings around; Alex Trimboli is hovering uncomfortably close to Sara Pearson by the pretzel bowl. “To do what?”

“To be oh-so-casually standing by when midnight strikes.”

“Yeah, like she’d let him kiss her…”

“Nah, he’ll do the eye contact thing,” Sam says, and Peter frowns.

“What eye contact thing?”

Sam swings his head around and makes eye contact with Peter. His eyebrows tilt up hopefully, hazel eyes going impossibly soft, and Peter’s chest tightens because _oh_.

“Oh,” Peter eventually hears himself say, out loud this time. “That’s really good.”

“Practicing in the mirror helps,” Sam says, and Peter can’t help but grin in spite of himself. “Pete, if _Alex Trimboli_ kisses Sara Pearson tonight, and you don’t kiss Ashley, I swear to god…”

Peter watches Alex, who’s trying to be cool as Sara pours Sprite into a red Solo cup. “Don’t you think it feels like cheating?”

Sam follows his eyes. “How? They’re not dating anyone.”

“Not that kind of cheating. I mean, like … kissing someone before you really know them. That’s just like, fast-forwarding in a relationship. If you like someone, you should make an effort, and get to know them, and …”

Peter allows himself to trail off. Who thinks that hard about a New Year’s kiss?

Sam looks like he’s about to respond, but the music, which had been really loud, stops. “It’s almost midnight!” somebody shouts.

They look around. It’s Ashley Hanson, standing on the coffee table with a triumphant grin, girls already trying to give him the same eye-contact-look Sam had given Peter. On the TV, the countdown is starting in Times Square. Peter looks over and sees Alex slowly inching towards Sara.

“ _Nine!_ ” the room shouts. “ _Eight!”_

Peter’s heart is in his throat. Ashley’s up there, but he’s down here -- Sam glances over and his eyes go all soft, or at least Peter thinks they do --

_“Four!”_

But then Nicole Gallagher runs over and grabs Sam’s shoulder. Peter vaguely knows her as one of Sam’s friends from drama. “Happy New Year!” she shouts at them.

“Not yet,” Peter says, but he can see her eyebrows tilt up at Sam.

“ _One!_ ”

“Happy New Year,” Sam says to Nicole.

Then she leans toward him, and he leans toward her, and they kiss.

* * *

 _ **December 31, 2016, almost midnight** _ 

At sixteen, Peter’s a little bit cooler.

 _American Vandal_ did well. Really well. So well that a very nice Kathleen DeFontes from the Netflix distribution team had emailed them about streaming rights. They’re sworn to secrecy, of course -- at least until all the dust settled. But still, it takes every atom in Peter’s being to not yell it from the rooftops: _we’ve got a Netflix contract!_

People know him now, say hi to him in the hallways. Even Ashley Hanson had stopped him outside homeroom to tell him the doc was great.

(Peter smiled for days about that one.)

But even so, it’s a little too easy for him to blend in with the wall. Even now, at Ashley Hanson’s New Year’s Eve party, he’s sitting at one of the bar stools in the kitchen with a brownie and a cup of orange soda. Everyone’s dancing -- he can see Sam doing that obnoxious Snapchat hot dog dance to a Killers song. They make eye contact and Sam fervently beckons him to join, but Peter only rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

Peter finishes his brownie and watches Sam dance. (With Gabi. And Jenny. And Angie. Then, finally, by himself.)

Sam is his very best friend, even if Peter isn’t entirely his.

He’s the first person he texts in the morning, and the last before he goes to bed at night. Not intentionally or methodically -- that’s just how it happens. He’s his longest Snapchat streak (688 days, anyone?) and the first Instagram DM opened, even if it’s a shitty meme (of which there were plenty). He’s the first friend Peter ever made in Oceanside, all the way back to fourth grade. First friend, first morning text, first to share dessert of any kind with, first --

“Kiss?” Sam says over his shoulder, and Peter almost chokes on his soda. He’d been so spaced out he didn’t notice Sam leave the dance floor.

“Sure,” Peter says, taking one of the foil-wrapped chocolates gratefully. “Probably the only kiss I’ll be getting tonight,” he jokes before popping it into his mouth.

“Mm, I don’t know,” Sam says thoughtfully as he unwraps his own. “Tonight could be your night.” Peter looks over, but Sam just crumples the foil and slips it into his back pocket. “I saw Ashley by the Chex mix, if you wanna go grab him.”

Peter flattens out his wrapper in his hands. Of course.

He’s thinking about getting another brownie when the music suddenly shuts off, and someone yells “It’s almost midnight!”

“ _Ten!_ ” he hears Dylan Maxwell shout from his near-comatose state on the couch, and the Wayback Boys cheer.

Peter looks around until he finds Sam again -- this time it’s him up on the coffee table, next to Jenny. Sam’s already looking at him, his grin lighting up the room brighter than Times Square.

Peter takes a breath that shakes on the way out.

“ _Eight!_ ”

Sam beckons him with his hand. Peter raises an eyebrow, and Sam makes a face that Peter can almost hear: _C’mon, Pete._

“ _Four!_ ”

Jenny slings an arm around him.

“ _Three!”_

Sam turns to her and fixes her with a grin that’s a little less bright than it was a second ago.

_“Two!”_

Jenny raises her eyebrows.

_“One!"_

Jenny leans up into Sam, and Sam leans down into Jenny.

And they kiss.

* * *

  _ **December 31, 2017, almost midnight**_  

At seventeen, Peter finally learns to gel his hair in a way that he likes. He’s finally got his license (after failing the test twice because he, for the life of him, cannot parallel park), and a final growth spurt propelled him to a very modest five foot six. He had never really considered himself very good-looking, but when he looks at old pictures, he figures that sixth grade Peter would be very impressed indeed.

“You look good,” Sam had said when he’d picked him up. “Really good.”

Peter had given an involuntary glance down at his outfit -- an off-white button down and dark-wash jeans. “Thanks,” Peter said, but when Sam looked away he’d failed to squelch the biggest grin.

When they walk in, there’s a roar that serves as a party-wide greeting. They’d been in Bellevue for a over a month filming the second _American Vandal_ , and with the Netflix premiere of the first earlier that fall,  they’re something of hometown heroes now. Dylan ruffles his hair, and Ganj and Sam do their special handshake. Even Brandon Galloway, Sam’s self-described nemesis, offered fist bumps all around.

(Of course, there’s a louder roar when Ming walks in, for all the same reasons, but also because nobody can do a funnel the way Ming can.)

At some point somebody turns on some ancient LMFAO song (Peter didn’t even know they were still in the cultural zeitgeist) and that’s when the party really gets going. People kick off their shoes and jump on couches and sing the words to songs they always sing. Wherever there is dancing, Sam Ecklund will follow, so Sam shrugs off his jacket and throws it to Peter.

Sam looks good.

As friends, Peter saw Sam a lot. Even before _Vandal,_ he’d see him in the morning for the Morning Show, in class, at lunch, and then after school to do homework together. But he never really got chances to just sit and look at him -- to look at the soft pink in his skin, or his long fingers, or the faint dust of freckles that got lighter in the winter.

Sam looks so good.

And Peter can’t do it again.

He can’t stand across the room and watch Sam kiss someone else. Not tonight. He can’t watch Sam give away the kiss he’s been working so hard for for two years now.

There’s a slow song now, and couples are pairing up. Peter scans the room -- a slow dance, well, that didn’t sound too bad -- but Sam’s already paired up with Angie Newsome, and Peter can feel his heart break a little bit more.

“Man, why don’t you just dance with him?”

Peter looks up at none other than Dylan, who’s slurping probably his ninth beer by now. He feels his mouth go dry. “I, uh -- I don’t.”

“Naw, don’t pull that shit with me. You do. Why else would you be doin’ one of these--” He then performs what Peter can only assume is the undeniable longing look that paints his features every New Year’s.

“I don’t,” Peter mumbles again stubbornly.

“Look, want my advice?”

“Um, not really.”

“Quit bein’ a chickenshit.”

Peter blinks.

“I mean, like --” Dylan rolls his hand, as though trying to speed up his thought process. “You guys have, like, always liked each other, right? Ganj’s gaydar is never wrong. Thing beeps like crazy when you guys are around.”

Peter finally relents. “If he liked me, he wouldn’t kiss other people on New Year’s.”

“Then tell him!” Dylan says, gesturing to the dance floor. “Listen -- _listen,_ Pete, I’m an expert -- he prolly doesn’t know you _want_ him to kiss you. Tell him to quit kissin’ other people!”

“We’re not -- _together_ or anything, Dylan, I can’t tell him that. He can kiss whoever he wants.”

Peter must have looked real dejected then, because Dylan gives him what Peter guesses is a sympathetic look, but it comes out looking more like a headache on Dylan’s end. “So when’s he gonna kiss you, then?”

Peter doesn’t have an answer for that one.

At precisely 11:55 P.M., Peter wanders away from the living room and down the hall, pretending that he’s looking for the bathroom. Then he slips out the back door. No one would ever think to look for him out on the porch.

It’s cold, but Peter still has Sam’s jacket, so he puts it on. Peter leans into his shoulder and buries his nose in the fabric; vanilla and fabric softener. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend that Sam lets him borrow it all the time, that it’s the boyfriend jacket.

Inside, the music stops, and the counting starts.

It’s good that Peter is out here, because it would hurt too much to be in there. It always hurt too much.

“ _Seven!”_

_“Six!”_

“Pete?” someone calls.

Sam. He’d recognize his voice anywhere.

“Peter?”

Peter wordlessly raises his hand in a nervous wave, but then says “Here,” because Sam is his best friend, he could never hide from him, not if Sam is the one to find him.

“ _Two!”_

“Peter…”

He could see Sam then, there in the moonlight, with his eyes going all soft and his eyebrows raised, and Peter licks his lips and nods.

“ _One!"_

Peter’s seen Sam kiss other people. Not just on New Year’s, but the occasional stage kiss too. Those kisses had looked soft and gentle, and had never lasted more than a few seconds. Those kisses made Peter squirm uncomfortably whenever he thought of them, until he forced himself to think of carpet or ceiling tiles or literally anything else.

So Peter hadn’t been expecting Sam to push him up against the wall of the house and kiss him, hard.

Their mouths open, and he tastes clean and healthy and _new._ Everything that makes New Year’s … New Year’s. Peter pulls him closer by his tie, his other hand curled loosely against Sam’s chest, and Sam’s hands are on his waist and it all feels like the most natural thing in the world. Like they’re only just now rediscovering something they didn’t know they’d lost.

The music has started back up inside by the time they ease up. Peter’s knees are shaking.

Sam speaks first. “Sorry,” he breathes, dropping his hands, and Peter immediately misses their warmth.

“Why are you sorry?”

Sam looks sheepish. “You wanted -- you wanted to kiss Ashley Hanson, didn’t you?”

“I mean, maybe a few years ago --”

“But now?”

Peter brings his thumb to his lips, which are still tingling and deliciously warm from the kiss. “I think it’s kind of obvious.”

Sam ducks his head, the breath from his laugh turning to steam between them. He digs the toe of his shoe into the grass. “I’ve, uh … I’ve always kind of wanted to do that. With you. On New Year’s.”

Peter’s mouth falls open. “But you always kiss someone else! Whoever you’re with when the ball drops --”

“I _wanted_ to be with you,” Sam says quickly. “Both times. But both times I thought _you_ didn’t wanna kiss me, and then you said that thing about how kissing on New Year’s is cheating --”

"I didn't mean --”

"And then tonight you disappeared at the countdown, and  _Dylan_ of all people told me to check the porch --" 

"Dylan s--?" 

"And you're just sitting out here like a lost little puppy,  _in my jacket_ , and, God, Peter, what was I supposed to do, with you looking fucking  _adorable_ in a jacket from  _Old Navy--"_

"Sam!" Peter says, gripping Sam's wrists, if only to keep him from gesturing even more wildly with every word. Sam falls silent, his throat bobbing with a silent swallow. "I've always... me too. I'm -- I wanted to kiss you every year, too." 

They stand in silence for a moment, listening to the muffled bass of a Panic! at the Disco song. Peter allows his hands to drift from Sam's wrists and gently-- hesitantly-- into his fingers, a shiver running up his spine at the contact. There’s a constant boom-boom-boom of fireworks in the distance, and as goddamn cliche as it sounds, Peter knows they’re nothing compared to the ones he felt in his chest only moments ago.

"Is it cool if I kiss you every day of every year?" Sam finally says, and Peter gives quite possibly the dopiest grin imaginable, paired with an affectionate squeeze of his hand. 

“But I do need you to stop kissing other people,” Peter replies, and Sam laughs again, unabashedly this time.

And in the years of being Sam’s best friend -- especially within recent years -- Peter has spent a lot of time pretending that what Sam was already giving him was enough. That he doesn't need anything more. Maintaining the firm line between wanting something, and needing it. 

But now what he wants -- and needs -- is right here, right underneath his fingertips. 

Peter tugs him down by his tie.

Sam leans into him.

"Happy New Year, Sam." 

"Happy New Year, Peter."

And they kiss.  
  
  
  
  



End file.
